


On a Billboard Way Up High

by devils_trap



Series: The Writing on the Walls [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Graffiting, Lil graffiti au, M/M, i might write more of this eventually, prob expand on this piece actually this is just a little ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devils_trap/pseuds/devils_trap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At night, though, under cover of darkness with just the moon, flashlights and the city lights to see by, they can work. They run across rooftops as quickly and quietly as they can, cans of paint in their bags jingling at their sides, their shoes slap slap slapping against the pavement as they run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Billboard Way Up High

They only work at night.

It’s too dangerous during the day, the sun illuminating their every move, gleaming off still-wet paint and the sweat on their brows. The sun misleads with its golden warmth, heating your bones and helping things to grow while outlining your actions for prying eyes. It’s a watchpower in the sky and it sees everything. It loudly tells your secrets.

Cops in Beacon Hills don’t like taggers. They think all graffiti is the same and that the goal of it is to destroy, to mar, when the goal is usually opposite. The streets are shit, dirty and covered in trash, dirty needles, empty bottles and condoms, among other things. They’re already fucking  _destroyed, mared._ Beacon Hills is a sprawling metropolis with tall, shiny buildings and a grimy underbelly. What they do is art, it’s beautification. The skill and the time that goes into tagging is extensive and the end result is a beacon in its own right. A beacon of beauty fighting its way through the oppression of ugly.

They don’t get the purpose of it, so they vilify the taggers. Beacon Hills is too large, too populated, for the BHPD to spare the manpower it’d take to adequately patrol the popular spots, but if a patrol spots a tagger, or someone who looks like they’d fall into that crowd, or even fresh tags, they’ll look into it. And they’ll do a thorough job, with the toes of their boots and their batons. 

The sun gleams just the same off a set of handcuffs and a bloody lip as it does a fresh tag.

At night, though, under cover of darkness with just the moon, flashlights and the city lights to see by, they can work. They run across rooftops as quickly and quietly as they can, cans of paint in their bags jingling at their sides, their shoes  _slap slap slapping_ against the pavement as they run. They breathe deeply through their noses and exhale loudly through their mouths as they vault over the lips of buildings, over drops that will readily kill them, and they swallow their groans of impact as they land on the other side.

The moon’s rays are cold and silver. It hovers overhead, brilliant in the night sky. It whispers the world your secrets, but the words die in the wind.

-

"Stiles, if you drop that bag of paint I swear to  _God_  I’ll throw you off this roof! Do you know how many hours I had to pull to get the expensive shit you asked for?”

"Get your panties out of a wad, I won’t drop the fucking bag! And excuse  _me_ for having  _taste_. We can’t all use cheap ass paint and enjoy it.”

"You calling my taste in paint cheap?"

"I’m not  _not_ calling your taste in paint cheap.”

Stiles and Scott are looking for a new place to tag, and, unfortunately, the hunt isn’t going well. Still, they canvas the area, hoping to find a place not already claimed by the Pack or the Hunters.

There are a few different tagging rings in Beacon Hills, the biggest of them being the Pack and their rivals, the Hunters. Scott and Stiles don’t exactly know what their beef is, but it’s amusing to see them fight. They tag over each other’s work constantly, raid bases and steal signature cans of paint. Sometimes they get into fist fights, but more often than not they fight with their paint.

"It’s kinda poetic…in a really fuckin’ gay kinda way," Stiles had said one afternoon, sitting beside Scott on a rooftop vent, the both of them taking in the large wolf’s face, fangs bared and eyes a bright red with red triskeles in the center—Derek’s signature tag without a doubt, he’s the only one in the Pack that does his with red eyes—tagged over the Hunters’ leader’s signature wolfsbane and French. He’d flicked his cigarette butt over the lip of the building, watched as the cherry hit the wolf’s nose and a shower of orange embers fell to the ground.

"I’m about to be poetic in a really fuckin’ gay way," Scott had drawled back, pushing Stiles onto his back and climbing on top. His fingers, stained a rustic orange, his signature color, ripped at Stiles’ belt buckle.

He grinned into Stiles’ throat as Stiles crowed, “Man, that was a fuckin’ lame ass segue. If you wanted my dick, you coulda just  _asked_.”

Scott and Stiles know the Pack pretty well. Well enough to have been practically courted into joining. Derek had taken one look at Scott’s signature, two black rings and the word VERITAS and damn near jizzed himself. He’d rolled his eyes at Stiles’ SCINTILLA and golden sparks, but word from Boyd says that Derek was actually pretty into it.

"Punk bitch," Stiles had mumbled. "Knew he liked my shit."

Boyd had just shrugged his shoulders.

They’re more of a duo than a group act, though, so they passed on the offer. Derek wasn’t thrilled, still actively hopes Scott, and by extension, Stiles, will give in and join the Pack. But he gives them space. Doesn’t let any of his crew tag over Scott and Stiles’ work, as long as they’re respectful in turn. Sometimes Stiles  _swears_ he can feel Derek’s eyes on his back, watching them, brooding from another rooftop and attempting to will them into joining him. 

"God, all these fucking buildings are tagged already," Stiles complains, doubling over to catch his breath. The messenger bag with their paint in it dangles beside his face, the balls inside  _tnk tnking_ against the metal can. “Maybe we should—fuck—”

"-we should fuck? Now?" Scott’s smirking, though, bright white teeth glowing in the moonlight.

"I wasn’t finished!" huffs Stiles. For extra effect, he flicks Scott off. "Maybe we should tag over Argent’s shit. Join the Pack or whatever. Though, I’d be kinda scared over initiation. Erica said it was just adopting Derek’s wolf and changing the eyes to gold, but he’s got such a hard on for you he might make us suck his dick or something." 

"He wouldn’t make us suck his dick, God, shut up," Scott mumbles around the mouth of a water bottle. After a moment, he holds it out.

Stiles swipes it from Scott’s grip. “You don’t see how he watches you! I’m afraid to leave you alone with him. What if he Vulcan nerve pinches you and carries you away to his den!”

Scott throws back his head and laughs. “It’s not like that.”

"Sure, sure it’s not. You’re just trying to keep me from becoming a jealous girlfriend." 

"You’re already a jealous girlfriend, Stiles."

"…see if I ever touch your dick again."

Stiles jokingly takes off, but he keeps his pace controlled so Scott can easily eat the distance and return to his side. The rooftops ain’t a place for joking around, unless you find a fifty foot fall hilarious.

They building hop for a while, until Scott grabs the back of Stiles’ shirt to stop him. Stiles flails a bit, glares over his shoulder until he looks where Scott’s pointing.

"A blank billboard, I’ll be damned," he says, whiskey eyes wide with awe. "How long has that been there?"

"There used to be an advert for some bullshit lawfirm," Scott says, "but I guess it was taken down. It couldn’t have been done any sooner than yesterday."

"Are we goin’ for it?" Stiles asks.

"Fuck yeah we are," Scott replies.

-

To make it to the billboard, they have to scale down the side of an old abandoned warehouse and run ten blocks. They weave in and out of alleyways, jump dumpsters and skirt around the cardboard boxes of the homeless.

The climb up isn’t so bad. Years of roof hopping kinda drains the fear of heights of of you, but it’s weird to be going up a ladder. Stiles keeps his mind off the drop by openly leering at Scott’s ass the entire way up.

Once at the top, they prop their messenger bag against the billboard and pull out their cans, Scott’s black and orange, Stiles’ white and gold. They back a pace or so to look at their canvas, and try to decide what they’re going to do with it.

"Same old?" Stiles suggests, shaking the gold can with his right hand.

"I was thinkin’ something new," Scott mumbles. "My rings with your sparks around them, and then our names intertwined."

Stiles blinks at him, his cheeks red and his stomach hot. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” he breathes.

Scott’s brown eyes are warm when they meet Stiles’. “Yeah?”

"Fuck, I’m gonna blow you so fuckin’ hard after we finish this. Fuck, get started on your rings."

-

"What’s—dammit, Scott and Stiles got the billboard," Erica huffs, eyes high as she throws her bag over her shoulder, slowly comes to a halt on the same rooftop Scott and Stiles had been on hours ago.

"Really?" Boyd asks. He zips up his jacket and stalks to Erica’s side, opens his arm to her so she can fit against his side. "Damn. Isaac showed me his see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil design with the wolves’ heads, it was gonna be fuckin’ sick."

"I’ll tell you what’s sick," Isaac groans, arm extended towards the billboard. "I’m pretty sure Scott’s getting blown. Right in front of all of Beacon Hills."

"Jesus, look at Stiles  _go_ ,” Erica breathes. “You can see the dedication to the dick from  _here_.”

"He’s really going at it," Boyd notes.

"I hope Scott holds onto him cause he sucks dick too well to fall off that billboard," Erica says.

"Probably has something to do with that new design. Fuck, look at it, it’s so pretty. Ugh. Ugh!" Isaac throws his hands up in the air. "Come on, let’s go find something of the Hunters’ to tag over. I can’t unsee those two goin’ at it."

"You’re protesting awfully loud over there, Isaac," Boyd hums. "You’re just as bad as Derek."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my [Tumblr](http://wildwolfsbane.tumblr.com/post/60522325408/scott-stiles-graffiti-au-they-only-work-at).


End file.
